


Identity Crisis

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Alias
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Identity Porn, M/M, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:56:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has stopped being Will Tippin so long ago that he sometimes can't remember what Will was like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Identity Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the time when Will was in witness protection.

"In real life, unlike in Shakespeare, the sweetness of the rose  
depends upon the name it bears. Things are not only what they are.  
They are, in very important respects, what they seem to be."  
 _Hubert H. Humphrey_

* * *

He has stopped being Will Tippin so long ago that he sometimes can't remember what Will was like, but the moment he sees the blond man sliding into the seat opposite his, he can feel a shadow of Will sinking over him. Will's fear. No matter who he has become, or who he is, or who he tries to be, he will always be terrified of Sark. 

He remembers Taipei, and the impersonal, stoical way Sark stood by and let him be tortured, as if it was something he witnessed every day. He remembers the smile on Sark's lips when he told Will that he was supposed to keep him alive, not comfortable. He also remembers Alison, and he thinks that if Sark has come for revenge – if this is _personal_ now, it will make Taipei look like a walk in the park.

Will briefly considers running, but it's not really an option – because where would he go? All this, his 'new life', is already an escape, and he's so tired of always running. Besides, what are the hopes that he could outmatch Sark in either speed or strength? So he remains in his seat, resigned, waiting for whatever is to come. He tries to give the other man a casual nod, part twisted greeting, part acknowledgment that he's waiting for Sark to make his move. 

Before Sark can, the waitress stops at the table to bring Will's sandwich. 

Will looks at it with sudden distaste, and the thought that if this is to be his last meal, he should have ordered a steak at least – something to make it worthwhile – steals into his mind unbidden. He shoves both – the thought and the sandwich – away, and watches in fascination as the waitress turns to Sark and the bastard calmly orders a bottle of Evian. As if this encounter is nothing but a casual meeting between acquaintances. 

When the girl is gone, Sark smiles at him. Actually _smiles_ , which is worrying on a whole new level. "What's your name?" he asks, in that clipped British accent of his. 

Will is pretty certain that Sark knows his name – both the real one, and the one he's now carrying – along with any other information there is about him, from his shoe size to the name of the goldfish he had when he was twelve. Sark probably knows more about him than he does himself. He frowns, about to say so and tell Sark to just cut the crap and get to the point, but something in Sark's expression – maybe the raised eyebrow that seems to say, 'Come on, humor me' – makes him stop.

"Jonah Roberts," he says finally. He's not sure why Sark would want to keep up the appearance, but he plays along because he's simply too terrified to do anything else. And maybe, just maybe, because he's a tiny little bit curious. A relic from his days as a reporter. Old habits die hard, and all that. "What's yours?"

"Julian."

Will absorbs the information. Whatever game they are playing – and he wishes Sark would just tell him already, because it's damn hard to play without knowing the rules – they're apparently on first name terms. He can't help but ask himself if this is really Sark's name. Not that it matters, or that he'll ever find out.

"So, Jonah," Sark continues, speaking the name with the kind of smug amusement that once again makes Will wonder at the reason behind this charade. "Come here often?"

That question… no, the whole situation is so absurd that Will can't quite contain the laughter welling up his throat. He sounds slightly hysterical, he supposes, but he's past caring. He is sitting in some bistro in Wisconsin with an internationally wanted terrorist who had him tortured and his best friend killed, so he has the fucking right to be hysterical. It is only the knowledge that he's probably not going to make it out of this alive that eventually stifles the laughter. 

"As a matter of fact, yeah. Every day after work, actually. So, what's next, man? Is this the moment where I ask you what a good-looking guy like you is doing at a place like this?" The golden Will Tippin rule, which still works even when he's not Will Tippin anymore: if all other defences fail, try humor. 

Sark grins and asks, "You think I'm good-looking?" and Will feels like he's stepped into twilight zone.

He's been wrong, he realizes: the situation they are faking is not a lunch between friends but a chance encounter of two strangers, complete with flirting and innuendo thick enough to cut with a knife. It would be hilariously funny, if the idea didn't go straight to Will's groin; and oh God, this is wrong on so many levels Will can't even count them. Not to mention that this is not real, merely a game Sark insists on playing for a reason Will has not yet figured out. Except that suddenly he has no interest in stopping it anymore; and that frightens him beyond anything else – that after everything Sark has done to him, all it takes is an innuendo-laced exchange and he is willing to lie down and spread his legs for the cocky little son-of-a-bitch.

He tries to remember if there was anything about the witness protection thing that forbade him to see a therapist. He thinks he might need one, because he can see a pattern there. Sydney, Jack (not that he'd ever tell a soul about his… crush on the other Bristow, he's not quite that insane, thank you), Sark. There must be a reason why he keeps being attracted to people who could kill him with their bare hands before he'd even see it coming.

Then again, he wanted Sydney long before he knew she was a kick-ass spy chick. And he didn't feel particularly drawn to Sark in Taipei. At least, he doesn't think he did. Not much, anyway.

He _so_ needs therapy. 

Of course, there's not much point in making therapist appointments when he's unlikely to survive the afternoon.

Belatedly, he realizes that Sark is waiting for an answer. "Have you recently looked into a mirror, man?"

Sark's smirk stretches. "An interesting way to sidestep the question. Which was, if I recall correctly, whether _you_ think I'm attractive." Trust the bastard to pick up the signals and refuse to let go.

The rational (sane) part of Will's mind reminds him that he should end this charade. The rest concludes that he has nothing left to lose anyway, so he might as well play along and see how far Sark is willing to take this. "Yeah," he admits softly, holding Sark's gaze. 

It is fascinating to watch the other man's eyes darken, pale blue turning to misty grey. And then Sark asks, "Why don't we take this conversation somewhere a little more private?", and Will finds his body reacting and himself saying, "I'm living just a few blocks away," even though he knows that it will be his execution they are heading off to, and not a fuck. 

Except that _is_ just that. 

He finds himself pushed against the door as soon as they are inside, Sark's mouth on his and the lithe, strong body pressed into his own. The door handle digs uncomfortably into his back, but he's too surprised to protest. The kiss is hard, unyielding, violent as a blow to the head and equally unbalancing. It's the kind of kiss that makes it impossible not to respond, even if you wanted to. 

When Sark breaks away, Will is left confused and breathless, and his lips are bruised. 

"Sark –" he begins, but before he can ask what all this is supposed to be – not an especially clever question anyway, with Sark's hard-on rubbing against his – there's a hand firmly clamped over his mouth, pressing so hard against the torn tissue of his lips that it hurts. 

"No," Sark says, sharply. "If you insist on calling me that, I might be forced to call you Mr Tippin, and I don't think either of us wants that."

The message is clear: they will pretend that they're not who they are, and no one will get hurt. Will starts to understand the rules of this game, even though he's not sure if he likes them. _Man, how fucked up is this?_ he thinks; and he's undecided if he should be relieved or scared that Sark seems to have more issues than he does. 

"Alright, man. Whatever." 

He hasn't been Will Tippin in years – he can live with not being Will Tippin tonight, if that's what's going to keep him alive. Especially when Sark's fingers deftly work his zipper down and brush against his cock, effectively making him forget who he is and who he should or shouldn't be. 

How they make it to the bed is a mystery to Will. It's not his choice, either, because the door is nice and flat and perfect, and the pain of the handle bruising the tender skin above his hipbone has been reduced to a faint shadow. But apparently Sark disagrees, because he steers them backwards into Will's apartment with gentle force. He continues undressing Will on the way to the bedroom, and Will tries to reciprocate the best he can, but their hands keep tangling and finally, Sark just brushes them away and does all the work himself. A pattern that continues when Will lies on his back with Sark above him, touching and tasting and rubbing against the long body underneath him. It doesn't surprise Will that Sark is a taker – which suits him just fine, because in this moment, he wants nothing more than to lie back and let Sark take whatever he wants. 

There's a brief moment – right when Sark's fingers wander up the inside of his left thigh in a feather caress – when Will thinks of Sydney, and how she would react if she ever found out. But his morals seem to be more flexible than he ever expected them to be, because when Sark lifts Will's legs over his shoulder and slides into him, Will doesn't waste a single thought on the wrongness of all this or how the same hand that is currently wrapped firmly around his cock has killed more people than he can count.

Sark fucks him face to face – a terrifyingly intimate position that leaves Will more open and vulnerable than he ever felt with anyone before.

_It should have been Sark in Taipei, not some nameless Asian dentist wacko_ , Will thinks; and the thought scares him because the idea of someone torturing him definitely shouldn't be erotic in any way, shape or form.

And either Sark is a mind reader, or he just knows Will a lot better than he should, because his hand – the one that's not on Will's cock – suddenly comes up and wraps around his throat, not quite cutting off the air but enough to hurt. Will doesn't struggle, just arches his head back and offers himself. He's too close, wordlessly begging Sark to bring him over the edge, but he only gets a smile that's positively sadistic.

"Not yet," Sark orders and punctures each word by slamming into him. He tightens the grip on both Will's throat and his cock; and his thrusts become harder, more frantic. It's almost too much, and then, it is just enough, and Will hears Sark whispering a faint, " _Now_ ," and that's all he needs to hear.

He comes, hard, and the world goes black.

When he opens his eyes, what could be minutes or maybe hours later, Sark stands above him and buttons up his shirt with an inscrutable expression on his face. Sark grabs his jacket and reaches into the inside pocket; and Will half-expects him to take out a gun. Instead, he produces a plain white envelope and hands it over. Will takes it, hesitantly, and wonders for a wild moment if he should feel offended if it's money.

The question turns out to be irrelevant because when he opens it, there's just the photo of a man inside. On the backside, there's a name. _Daniel Carmack_ , it reads, in a neat, sharp handwriting Will suspects to be Sark's. 

"What's this?" he asks, confused.

Sark has already turned away and continues dressing. When he speaks, he doesn't bother looking up. "I want you to find out as much as you can about the man. His bank accounts, where he lives, who he fucks, what restaurants he eats at." 

It would be helpful if Will could concentrate on what Sark is saying, but it's hard when the way he says 'fuck' in that pristine British accent makes Will's body vibrate with need. He tries to shake off the erotic spell Sark seems to have cast over him. "I… I can't do that."

"You were a reporter, Mr. Tippin," Sark says sharply, raising his gaze to look at Will. "Digging out information is what you're good at." 

Sark's voice is ice, but it's the words that feel like a cold shower to Will; and the fear is back. Or maybe it was never completely gone – but without the arousal to smother it, the fear is cold and uncomfortable.

"I thought I wasn't supposed to be Will Tippin?" 

"You weren't. Now you are."

Will looks at Sark and realizes that this was why the guy sought him out in the first place. Everything else that happened was impromptu, the heat of the moment and all that – and Will doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. He just knows that this little game of who he is supposed to be and when, it's making his head spin. 

"I'm not suffering from a multiple personality disorder, man."

"Then you'd better learn to be. It might be instrumental for your survival." Which would be funny, if Sark wasn't deadly – no pun intended – serious.

"Fuck you," Will counters weakly.

Sark smiles, and when he speaks, his voice has regained the amused tone it held earlier in the bistro. "Maybe next time."

He saunters out of the room without a backward glance. Will's gaze follows him until the door falls shut and he's gone. It's only then that he grasps he's made a deal with the devil. He thinks he should probably be more frightened by the realization. And yet, he hasn't felt this alive in a long time.

End.


End file.
